


Except, obviously

by ShadowSelene (Shadowdianne)



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, one-sided-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27354925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowdianne/pseuds/ShadowSelene
Summary: He didn't need to look at the Styx. He was gone, left.And yet. He did.
Relationships: Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	Except, obviously

He didn’t need to look at the Styx. That was a sentence that appeared on his mind often while he positioned at the very top of the veranda overlooking the never-ending river, the scent of sulfur that got carried from the very pits of Asphodel a welcoming aftertaste at the bottom of his tongue. He didn’t need to look into the red waters made out of blood and tears of those unable to cross and yet, time after time, he found himself positioned against the rail of the balcony; hands closing around his scythe and eyes piercing the surface of the river, searching, seeking.

Death was such an easy concept and yet the most difficult one to grasp for those who couldn’t die any longer; to be death incarnate meant not to be the one who collected but the one who sensed the lines about to be cut by scissors who weren’t on his grasp. Threads that wrapped themselves around, inside, and called for him when they needed. For mortals, the threads could only be cut once. For gods, however, the threads were multiple, always changing, forever regenerating. He would have explained such things to someone eager to listen, but he had quickly realized that no god was too fond on peering into the reality that despite their strength over mortals they could, very well, experience death. Those beyond the chthonic realms he knew were his home were even more detached to the notion, and those who lived among the realms of the Hades House… weren’t simply interested on talking about mortality when death and despair were such an easy topic to fall into.

Except, obviously, Zagreus.

They had grown under the all-seeing Nyx. She had taught them how darkness would always be the warm enveloping hug that would wait for them for every scratched knee and piercing question and yet, as he himself had come into his role in a very similar fashion than his brother had done -sleep incarnate, the temporary fix for mortals, for those who bleed and breathed- Zagreus had never quite halted his questions nor the way his eyes would lose themselves into the cracks of the pillars that framed and protected the house. Thanatos would never dream on questioning the cracks, not because he himself didn’t see them, didn’t feel the mismatch between his mother’s words and the corrupted surface of the place he now stood, but because he knew there was only so much he was able to experience as the one who kept every single gift light and live bestowed upon those capable of experiencing. It was a universal truth among the chthonic gods. They all knew it, had grown accustomed to it.

Except, obviously, Zagreus.

And yet he had thought, once upon a time, not really so long ago, that the other man had learnt that there was only so much one could run from and towards, had thought that he didn’t need to explain himself when he felt the stench of the Styx seeking for him, when he could feel the death and expiration date of every single soul. He had thought he didn’t need words for what he couldn’t quite voice, because he had thought, he had believed, that despite the caustic knowledge that seemed to weigh on Zagreus, the bi-colored eye man could learn to think of Home when amidst what he now stood from.

He had, obviously, been wrong. And the first pull, the first death that had made him open his eyes in terror with bile building behind his teeth, galloping with each new breath he took, had been what he had considered -at the time- the worst of it all.

He had been unsure, the first time, when he had felt the call of blood and angered soul, one that glimmered reddish and black against his mind’s eye, one that came to him same as Zagreus pain when he had first fallen while trying to reach the then pup Cerberus had caused them both to gasp in pain. He had been unsure; hoping against hopes that the thread that had been cut and was quickly regenerating against his very throat, was a mistake, had been a mistake, one made out of sleepless nights and the overactive imagination of his brother, the one guilty and capable of it all.

Yet, it hadn’t been a mistake. Zagreus had been pushed by the waters, arms laxed and face darkened, eyes unseeing, blind. Solely at the touch of the House’s floor, he had focused his eyes enough towards the standing throne positioned at the end of the hallway, his fury, evident, all-consuming, flaming, shying Thanatos away as confusion led to pain, to anger, to ire, to loss.

Zagreus wanted to leave Hades. That concept alone would sound ridiculous except, while Hades, the Lord of House, considered it futile, Thanatos knew enough of the dark-haired man to know that he, very well, was able to commit such plan if he put his mind to it. Idle, sloppy, lazy. The epithets were many and badly considered but repeated incessantly for so long that the Lord seemed to believe them without looking at them twice, without considering that the boredom came from the same pitch of blackness Thanatos had thought that would eventually unite them both. He knew better, of course, had seen the resolution -the one that had lighted the floor behind and beneath Zagreus feet as he had approached the throne with blood and shadows still falling at his footsteps- more than once before: when Achilles taught him how to use new weapons, when he heard of stories from beyond the doors of the realm, amidst the shadows so concerned with their own sense of new-found no-mortality that would often and usually forget themselves. Zagreus was able to focus on what he wanted. If he was motivated enough. And he, all-consuming, blinding, righteous, gorgeous, would, undoubtedly, free himself from bounds that didn’t come from the Lord of the house despite what mortals said or believed in.

He had been hurt after that, after he had looked at the scythe as yet another soul had called for him, his wings covering his body from the horror of seeing the Prince running towards his room, where, he knew, the doorframe of the rear window could be opened and unfastened just enough, just a smidge enough, for a soul to cross over. He had been angry and sad. Disheartened, at the notion of not having listened enough. Of not having been able to procure or see, or feel, that his own voice was not what he had thought it had been. He had tried to keep himself away from Zagreus’ thread as much as possible and yet, after feeling the tension on the clothing, on the thread, on his life, over and over and over and over and over once again he had finally found himself stepping into the darkness so familiar to him with one kiss from Nyx poised on his brow as a goodbye and re-appearing in front of the man that he had fallen for with nothing but stilted words and the inability to fully explain why there wasn’t anything else to say but cutting lines that didn’t draw any more blood than the one he could feel pumping, cascading, dribbling, from Zagreus form.

Thanatos clasped the scythe as strongly as possible, his knuckles turning white, as he felt the siren-song of another soul circling the entrance of the chamber that would led to the courtyard of the palace: the soul usual final stop before they were heard and considered for any of the realms present in the always-growing blackened domain.

He had felt Zagreus living the realm the second his soul had turned as bright as the one from the Olympian Gods, always reaching towards something he couldn’t quite appreciate nor understand. He had felt shunned by it, chocked to death by the thread that now grappled him. He had wished he was wrong. Had wished that his perception had failed him. Then he had realized that, beyond that first death the feeling of knowing Zagreus would not come back this time, would not be killed by some wraith or spirit or monster or bounded soul, was the worst one to have among them all.

Clothes felt like weighed down by dried blood and loathsome night and shadows, the metal of his weapon crackling with thunderous wait. He had ended up presenting in front of Zagreus after that one slip, as angry as he had was just as thirsty of being able to see the other man once more, while they both shared the same space, the same circle in where Thanatos could stood without being bitten by what he couldn’t quite reach. He had fought alongside him, not because he wanted to aid on his escape -selfish, but what was death but selfishness? -but because then, at least, he was able to steal a few more seconds, a few more inches of threat that wouldn’t make him remember the brittle ends of a thread he feared to find severed for good one time. As idiotic, as stupid, as ludicrous, as that idea was.

But it didn’t matter, he found himself thinking with bitterness escaping his lungs. It didn’t quite matter any longer as Zagreus was gone. And, with him, their fights, his smile, his quipped comments, his laughter. His blood. Death was selfish but not delirious; he knew that, at the end of the journey, Zagreus would not turn his eyes towards the lack of freedom and light his Realm represented. Not for him, not for anyone. And Thanatos would have never dared to ask such thing, not if Zagreus himself didn’t comment on it. And how one would do it if he had never spoken of how much he wanted to lose himself between Zagreus’ arms?

Which was the reason why he didn’t need to look into the Styx, not any longer. Alas, he did, second after second, thread after thread. Hermes could collect the souls, Charon could pick up their innards for the money, Morpheus could list them all into a neat line made out of scribbled nonsense no one but him fully understood. He would wish for them all to rot; he had fought and screamed and done his job. A job he wished to cease.

Death Incarnate. A title, a name, a concept not so difficult to grasp.

And, yet…

And yet a thread called for him, a voice and a name, a title calling for him, for his hands, for his scythe. For him. And so, the Styx rippled and receded, and a body emerged, a body with bi-colored eyes and a smirk plastered all over his mouth; a promise, a word.

“Missed me?”


End file.
